


Bands in a Spectrum

by Goethicite



Category: Justified
Genre: 5 Things, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied Relationships, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:52:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goethicite/pseuds/Goethicite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a hundred thousand more worlds, there is no Raylan Givens or Boyd Crowder.  They exist here, and sometimes they turn the world upside down.  These are four times they turn each others' world upside-down, and one universe on the other side of the mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Flash of Gold

In this world, Boyd snuck a piece of paper into Raylan's back pocket after meeting him at the courthouse. There was an address on it and '0630 Tomorrow'. Raylan almost didn't go. However, Art somehow found about the note and insisted Raylan shouldn’t. The ornery streak wouldn't allow for Raylan to do anything else but go.

So Raylan dragged his hungover ass out of bed early enough to be an hour late according to the directions on the internet and avoid anyone Art might send to tail him. He was going to make all sorts of bad decisions over Ava. Experience told him that much. There was a whole history with Boyd he hadn't thought about in years which promised yet another set of temptations Raylan didn't need. It had hurt to see his old partner with black ink winding around his forearms. Helen had always called Boyd's eyes 'hellfire green', because the boy ran a little wild even when he knew where he was going. Not that Raylan ran any cooler at the time. Raylan's world was more unbalanced than he liked with that green and black turning ugly in his direction.

The apartment was the sort of place that took cash and didn't look too closely at photo IDs. The room indicated by the note was on the sixth floor. Of course, the elevator was broken. Raylan contemplated whether it was worth walking down the block to get ibuprofen before making the climb. Deciding against it, he took a deep breath and immediately regretted the stench. Now nauseated as well as aching, he started climbing to room 624. The door was cracked open when he got there. So he walked in.

Boyd met him with a shot gun leveled at chest height. The black ink extended to a swastika so dark it looked carved into Boyd's shoulder. All of his bare chest was white and thin though, like canvas stretched too tight over a frame. Raylan grimaced and swallowed down bile at the sight. "Gonna make good on that promise now? I thought I had 'til noon."

"No," Boyd sighed, lowering the gun. "It ain't for you, Raylan. Shut the door." He leaned the shotgun against the wall. The room was a studio apartment, grimy from decades of careless smokers who'd inhabited it. The only thing that didn't look like it was a public health violation was the cot in the center of the room covered in cotton sheets gone grey from washing. Boyd slumped onto the bed, pulling his knees up towards his chest.

Raylan kicked the door shut to avoid having to touch it. "Then why the hell did you drag me out here before God himself is awake?"

Boyd nodded to the black wallet on the folding table next to the bed. "Something you need to know. Go ahead."

With a suspicious glare, Raylan picked up the wallet. It was the kind meant to hold a badge. Apparently, Raylan's stomach could sink lower. He opened it expecting to see the face of some poor statie who'd crossed Boyd. "What the fuck, Boyd?" He spun on heel furious. "Where did you get this?"

"Same place you got yours, I expect," Boyd replied wearily. "Go ahead. Call in the number. It's bonafide." 

"I will be doing so," Raylan replied incredulously. He pulled out his cell and dialed Art. "I need a badge look-up. ATF, number four-zero-four-eight."

Art huffed, "You got a name to go with that, Raylan?"

"Not at the moment," Rayaln said, snapping the wallet shut. He listened to the typing on the other end, watching Boyd. The man had lost most of the fire Raylan had seen at the church. He wondered why this ATF agent was the victim who pushed Boyd towards the light.

Art cleared his throat. "Raylan, the file's restricted. No name, no picture, no nothing that we can access." He sounded more frustrated than puzzled.

Raylan's hand twitched towards his gun as Boyd's pocket buzzed. Boyd pulled out a slick, black cell phone and flipped it open. "Yessir," he said quietly. "I know someone just searched on my badge number. It's a US Deputy Marshal, Raylan Givens. He's in the room with me. I'm readin' him in."

Even from across the room, with his jaw on the floor, Raylan could hear a man on the other end of the line saying, "What the hell, Crowder?"

Holding, Raylan's gaze, Boyd replied agreeably, "It is a bit sudden, sir. Art Mullen is his boss. He'd appreciate a call, I'm sure. Inter-agency cooperation and all." He closed the phone with a click. "I missed you, son."

"You're ATF," Raylan said. His voice sounded far away even to himself. "Boyd, you're a federal?"

"Goin' on eight years now," Boyd agreed. "And that's ATF...E."

Raylan moved his numb lips, "Explosives. That's why. You always did love blowing shit up. Why ATF? With your record? How?" It felt kind of like the entire world had decided it was sideways, and Raylan was still upright. A Crowder a federal was even less likely than Givens. 

"Was juvenile," Boyd shrugged. "Kept my nose clean in Kuwait. Meet a woman there, EOD, explosives and ordinance disposal, National Guard. Her day job was with the LAPD bomb squad. No women in combat, but IEDs are all over, right? She taught some of us demo boys to disarm the bang as well a set it off. We hit it off, Janie and I. Not many of the boys could stand a woman being as she was. But you know me and a spunky girl." He gave Raylan a toothy, inviting grin. "Told me to look her up after. I took her up on the offer."

"Where is she?" Raylan rasped. He knew the look in Boyd's eyes, had seen it directed towards himself often enough when they were young.

Boyd shrugged, "Married an artist in Seattle and settled in to give him babies. Last I heard, she was captainin' the organized crime division up there." He paused. "She didn't break my heart, Raylan. We were the lost leadin' the blind, hopin' that luck, piss, and vinegar could get us to the promised land." His gaze went distant. "In the end, it was duty, the badges, not love. It ain't no way to live, son. Not when we'd been so good at the start."

"I’m sorry," Raylan said thickly. He staggered forward a little, slumping against the bed to try find solid ground again. "About Janie, but that doesn't explain what the hell is goin' down in Harlan."

"Guns," Boyd said with a hoard, crackling laugh. "Guns and bombs, Raylan. They want the guns and bombs and the drug money being used to buy them. Daddy's got several, profitable side ventures with children killin' each other in the cities. And I can see it all from where I stand next to Daddy's throne. I been here eighteen months, Raylan. I'm goin' crazy bein' this alone."

Raylan let out a slow whistle. "Jesus, Boyd. I would have never guessed."

Knocking his shoulder in Raylan's, Boyd's mouth twisted into a small, broken smile. "You were never intended to believe anything otherwise." Raylan leaned back into the tap. He didn't know what to say. So he stayed awkwardly silent. "It's fine," Boyd said, patting Raylan's arm reassuringly. "It's oh-kay, Raylan."

The words weren't reassuring at all. Raylan could read between the lines enough to know how badly Boyd was fraying. Only his daddy could twist him up like that. "What do you want, Boyd?"

"'member when the foreman first put us on shift together?" Boyd asked.

The non-sequitur was something Raylan could roll with. "Sure thing, Boyd. Charlie was a good one, letting you steady me out like that."

"Well, now I need the steadyin'," Boyd said softly. "You gonna save me, Raylan? In your damn white hat and shiny badge."

Raylan shuddered. "I didn't come back back to save no one, Boyd." Not that Boyd could be saved. Not when he was this deep in shit. "But… It's been a long time since we've partners, son."

Boyd's face lit up. "Why, thank you kindly, son. I already have confidence I may actually see the sunlight on the other side of this."

"Fine," Raylan sighed. "Fine. Dammit, Boyd. Art's gonna be pissed. You owe me." Boyd just laughed until he cried a little. Raylan propped him up and tried not to smile. The world was right side up now. He couldn't figure how he hadn't noticed it was upside down in the first place.


	2. A Twinned Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marshals have partners as rule. The Kentucky Boys are partners still writing their legend.

There wasn't any question Crowder was going with Givens after the shooting of Tommy Bucks. The Kentucky Boys were inseparable. Dan had inherited them as a matched set. Boyd Crowder had a BS in Explosives Engineering with a minor in Sociology, experience with explosives, and was a barracks lawyer. Raylan Givens, born a century too early, hadn't been a great student but was a damn good marshal if a bit quick on the trigger. They had a reputation together as terrifyingly old-fashioned. They were the kind of men who had written the legends of the US Marshals Service.

Technically Crowder hadn't done anything wrong by holding off Bucks' minions with a shot gun, but it was excuse enough to ship them out together. Dan took it as a blessing. Crowder talked the loudest of the two of them, talking down fugitives, talking up rookies, but no one could forget how quiet he'd been when Givens had been kidnapped. According to Art Mullen, Crowder had been quiet at Glynco too after Givens' marriage started to go south. Nothing good happened when Crowder went quiet. He'd been silent as Dan told them Eastern Kentucky or leave the Marshals.

Boyd and Raylan didn't have much in the way of material goods. They'd traveled light since running out of Harlan with their tails between their legs like the beaten pups they were. "What about your daddy?" Raylan finally dared to ask as he set Boyd's duffel next to his own in his trunk.

"Kentucky's a big state, son, and Lexington's a far ways from Harlan," Boyd settled his shotgun in the footwell of the passenger's seat. "And you should be thinkin' after your own as well."

With a shrug which was more grimace, Raylan asked, "You heard from Ava lately?" The trunk slammed shut on the other part of the conversation. They moved around the car. Raylan went to the driver's side. Boyd slipped in the front seat.

"No," Boyd said flatly. Raylan's gut went tight. They'd suspected for a long time that Bowman was beating on the girl. But she wouldn't say it, and Miami was awfully far away from Harlan.

Raylan started the town car. "Maybe this won't be pure hell then. We ain't seen her since she came to vacation in Miami way back when. I miss her, and I know for a fact you miss those conversations about books you two were always havin'."

That startled a soft laugh out of Boyd. "Some of us enjoy improving ourselves, Raylan Givens." He fingered the barrel of his shotgun thoughtfully as the rolled towards the highway.

The drive was a long one, winding through Florida, Georgia, and Tennessee. It reminded Raylan a little of their first long drive together. They'd driven to New Mexico, sleeping in the truck bed when both of them were too exhausted to go on. The truck had broken down outside of Tucumcari on the side of I-40, a cracked radiator leaking over the pavement. They'd still be there if a woman driving a Volkswagon from Ohio to Los Angeles hadn't given them a lift. She'd called herself Janie. Her daddy had been an EOD man in Vietnam, and she was going into the family business with the LAPD. Janie had vanished into the night after she left them in the city, and they'd never heard from her again.

New Mexio was good for them. Raylan had staggered through community college at Boyd's insistence while Boyd made the hour drive either way six times a week to get the same degree at an engineering college further south. They worked on ranches in the summer and bussing tables in the winter. A rancher gave Raylan a hat. One of the bartenders gave Boyd his old lit books. It was at Boyd's college they met the recruiter who'd pulled them into the Marshals Service.

Now they were again driving into a different kind of unknown with the country music they'd gotten partial to in Dallas playing on the radio. "You gonna call Helen?" Boyd asked in Georgia. Raylan glared at him for the next hundred miles.

The next time they stopped for gas, Raylan got change for the payphone. Boyd was right. Without Helen braving Bo Crowder's wrath that day to drive Boyd to the Harlan County line, Boyd would have never been able to climb into the seat next to Raylan. Helen had given them money, means, and a fighting chance to be free of their families' legacies.

He dialed the house knowing it was late enough in the day Arlo was probably drinking. Sure enough, Helen answered with her husband hollering in the background. "We don't have enough money buy whatever your selling, mister," she said sharply.

"I ain't sellin', Aunt Helen," Raylan said.

"Raylan." The joy in Helen's voice made Raylan cringe back. "Where's Boyd?"

Crowding behind Raylan so he could hear the phone as well, Boyd answered, "Here, Miz Helen."

"As I live and breath, how are you boys? I saw on the news about the gun thug in Miami. Are you both okay?"

Raylan felt himself smile involuntarily at the exasperation there. "Yes, ma'am. We're fine." He leaned back into Boyd, feeling the warm strength of those whip thin limbs. "Just fine."

Art Mullen and his wife had been guests at the dinner table often back when things had been good in Raylan's marriage. He'd never said anything about the third man who danced Winona around the kitchen like he was her husband instead of Raylan. Raylan and Winona had fought about a lot of things, but she loved Boyd as much as Raylan did. She still called Boyd when she was drunk and melancholy. Boyd would take the phone to another room, but he had a way of talking to her which made it easy to tell.

Art watched things fall apart and knew that most of the crying Winona had done in the last days of being a Givens was for losing Boyd. But those two boys were closer than brothers, than lovers it seemed sometimes. If you wanted one, you got the other. Raylan had told Art that he wanted the silver star. Boyd had only come with to make sure Raylan wouldn't be alone. Art wasn't sure he quite believed that. Nothing made Boyd happier than a shotgun and smart fugitive.

"It's good to see you, boys," Art said with a big smiling, shaking Raylan's hand. "You got place yet?"

Boyd snorted. "Raylan here found us a motel." He glowered at Raylan pointedly. Their current accommodations were not something he was pleased by. "The roaches are quite friendly."

"Yes, I know. We'll find somewhere else which doesn't offend your delicate sensibilities as soon as we’re settled in," Raylan replied, long-suffering. There was a fondness there as well like they'd had this conversation so many times it might as well have been scripted. Then again, all of their conversations took a turn for the overly familiar. Winona used to say they shared a brain.

Art waved them into his office. "Well, if we're done politely jawin', I got a job for you two. You're both from Harlan right?" He pulled out three glasses and poured a fingers worth of bourbon in each. Raylan pulled off his hat, settling into the rolling chair Art kept in his office for when he had more than one guest.

"Yep," Boyd drawled out pointedly. "Born and raised together." He settled in the other chair so Raylan's knee would brush his. It was more distance than they'd bothered with at Glynco, but while the Marshal's service was trying to be properly progressive, two single men had to be more careful than one married man and his old friend.

"Out of curiosity, Boyd, you wouldn't be related to Bo Crowder?" Art asked glancing down at the file the AG's office had sent him.

Boyd went very still. Raylan finally broke the loaded silence when he murmured, "That's Boyd's daddy, Art."

"Then Bowman Crowder's your brother," Art said, rubbing his hand across his face before downing his drink. "Shit. Boyd, I'm sorry. Bowman's dead."

Raylan spoke again, because Boyd wasn't going to. "How?"

Art picked up another file and slid it over to the two men. "His wife, Ava. Bowman was beatin' on her bad apparently. She got fed up. Shot him at the dinner table."

"Ava," Boyd said roughly. "Is she okay?" He looked up at Art seriously. "My brother was a drunken es-oh-be, Art. If Ava thought she had to shot him to save herself, I ain't going to contest that. But my daddy is not as reasonable as I. Where is she?"

"She was released on her own recognizance," Raylan read from the file. "Back to Harlan. Shit."

Art frowned. "You're sure that she's in trouble? Bo's in jail. How influential is he?" The expression of disbelief and no little fear on both Raylan's and Boyd's face convinced him. "Dammit. Stubborn woman didn't say anything to anyone."

"Why would she?" Raylan demanded, standing up and putting back on his hat. "No one ever tried to stop it before." He glanced at Boyd. A serious of rapid fire, subtle expressions were exchanged between them. The silent conversations they had were never anything but complex. "We've got to go down there and get her, Art. We got no clue who Bo might own. She knows it to. It'll have to be us."

"Fine, hold up a second," Art sighed. He stood up and walked over to his office door, leaning out into the bullpen. "Gutterson, get in here." A young marshal looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Now would be good, Tim." Art's exasperation got the man moving at a slow meander into the office. "Tim, these are Deputy Marshals Raylan Givens and Boyd Crowder. You'll be goin' with them to Harlan. Boyd, Raylan, Tim Gutterson."

Gutterson nodded slowly. "You’re the guys from Miami. Which one of you is the cowboy who gave him twenty-four hours?"

"That would be the obvious answer, Marshal Gutterson," Boyd said, quick and clipped. "Raylan has never been a subtle man. Now, I hate to be rude, but the more time my sister-in-law spends in Harlan the more likely I will have to bury her next to her husband." He gathered up the two files Art had been planning to walk them through. "We've got time to cover the details on the way."

Raylan gave up trying to be social appropriate. He stepped behind Boyd until there was spare space between their bodies. "Ava'll be fine, son. Always is." With a firm pat to Boyd's shoulder, he stepped forward, tipping his hat up, to look at Gutterson speculatively. "This way, deputy. I'm drivin'."


	3. The Lawyer, the Lawman, and their Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boyd's godawful clever. When he decided to make use of that, it wasn't because he expected to have Raylan again. That's just the happy accident.

When Raylan wasn't answering his cell on his day off, no one worried much. It was an annoying habit, but it was relatively harmless when he warned everyone he was going to be out of contact. However, there was now an all hands on deck situation. Art sent Rachel and Tim to pick-up Raylan before heading to Louisville. At least the Crowder house was along the way.

Assistant U.S. Attorney Boyd Crowder had a house up in the hills outside of Lexington. He and his wife Ava, more Ava than Boyd if you believed Winona Hawkins, insisted Raylan live in their guest house rather than the roach motel he'd been renting as soon as they'd seen the place. Rachel had seen Ava Crowder drag Raylan into a conference room with her husband tailing them, amused smile on his face. Raylan had asked for help packing as soon as he escaped.

The three of them had heat sticky, twisted history together in Harlan County which occasionally boiled over where Rachel and Tim had seen. AUSA Crowder's family were criminal royalty in Kentucky. Raylan's father was what his own son called a 'gun thug'. Everyone knew AUSA Crowder's rags to riches story. The man had gone to law school on the GI bill backed by some money from his grandmother. He'd worked as secretary at a prestigious law firm in Nashville while going to college. His wife had divorced Crowder's younger brother for beating her. Then turned around and married her brother-in-law while he was still a starving college student. Those rude enough to comment were always told that she'd been too young to realize she was marrying the wrong Crowder and had rectified her error as quickly as possible. She volunteered at reputable clinics for low-income women when she wasn't working as a bookkeeper for several local businesses.

No one quite knew where Raylan Givens fit in the Crowders' back-woods fairytale. Even his ex-wife didn't know enough to say anything, or, if she did, she didn't talk about it. However, the Crowders had welcomed him into their family like the prodigal son. They spoke to Raylan in thick, heavy curls of words that lacked proper grammar or the bland, gentrified drawl they usually sported. Especially when Raylan's blood was up over something. Boyd Crowder liked to soothe Raylan with a hand on the gun arm, speaking low and hillbilly until the lines of Raylan's face softened.

Rachel and Tim climbed out of the government black SUV in front of the white wood and red brick little two story where the Crowders lived. Knocking on the door didn't provide a response. Tim walked around to the detached garage to confirm that both the Crowders' cars and Raylan's Lincoln were there. "Where the hell are they?" Rachel sighed, glancing through the window on the door when Tim waved to let her know they all were home.

"Round back?" Tim offered. "I remember Raylan saying something about him and Crowder finishing Missus Crowder's gazebo." He shrugged at Rachel and gestured towards the backyard. Rachel sighed again and followed him around the side of the house. A sprawling expanse of Kentucky bluegrass led to a forested area sloping into the hills behind the house. A narrow path covered in colored gravel, bordered by solar garden lights, led into the forest. Rachel and Tim started climbing.

A hundred feet down the path a white, lattice roof was visible. So Rachel called out, "Hello? It's Deputy Marshal Rachel Brooks."

"We're in the gazebo, Deputy Marshal," Boyd Crowder called back from the direction of the roof. He sounded amused. "Come on back. Ava's put her shotgun down." It would be more of a joke if it hadn't been less than six months since Ava Crowder had taken a bullet for her husband while shooting back at a group of Dixie Mafia, who'd taken offense to Crowder indicted one of their captains.

The path ended at a wooden gazebo painted white, looking like something out of a home magazine. AUSA Crowder was wearing a t-shirt with more holes than shirt on the swing. A book bound in brown canvas dangled loosely from one hand. The scar on his chest from where he'd taken a bullet during a hostage situation gone wrong at the courthouse was a bright red mark against his tan skin. Across from him, on a padded bench, Ava Crowder's white sundress with hitched up to her knees to keep her legs cool. Her scar too was visible. On her lap was Raylan Givens head with the rest of him sprawled over to the end of the bench. His hair was ruffled like she'd been petting it. A glass of clear liquor balanced on his breastbone balanced by one of his hands, beading from the heat of his skin. He was shirtless and very obviously drunk from the sloppy grin on his face. A quart jar sat between the four of them on the floor of the gazebo, half-empty. God only knew the proof they were drinking.

"To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Marshals?" AUSA Crowder asked, raising an eyebrow. He looked amused and puzzled by Rachel and Tim's staring. Like it wasn't odd at all for another half-naked man to be draped over his wife.

"How drunk is Raylan?" Tim finally asked. "Because Art wants him onsite, now."

"Well, he drank most that jar," Mrs. Crowder sighed. "Raylan, sweetheart, I need you move now. We gotta get you sobered up."

"Why?" Raylan asked plaintively, turning his face into Mrs. Crowder's stomach.

Mrs. Crowder huffed. "Boyd, help me get this idiot on his feet." AUSA Crowder grinned an unnerving flash of teeth.

"Marshal Gutterson, I suspect it will go easier with two of us," Crowder said cheerfully as he pulled Raylan into a sitting position.

"I'll go start the coffee. Would you two like any?" Mrs. Crowder asked, smiling at Rachel. "The boys'll get Raylan sorted out." Her smile was open and friendly, but her pale eyes reminded Rachel she'd shot two men for her husband. Rachel suspected she'd shoot one for Raylan as well if he needed it.

Obediently, Rachel replied, "I'd love coffee."

Tim echoed, "Me too, ma'am."

Mrs. Crowder beamed at them like a proud teacher. "Kitchen's this way, honey. You had breakfast? I think we got some pancakes left over." She led Rachel away leaving Tim and her husband to get Raylan on his feet.

"Boyd," Raylan said carefully like he was trying to avoid slurring, "why is Tim here?" His eyes narrowed on the other marshal.

"Tim is here to take you to work as soon as we dry you out, son," Crowder replied patiently, guiding Raylan down the gravel path. "Don't worry 'bout dinner. Ava can make chicken tomorrow just as easy as tonight."

Raylan pouted. "I don't want her mad at me, Boyd. Not again." The words ached with an old sadness.

"She won't be mad, darlin'." The affectionate name from the AUSA made Tim glance over just to be sure he heard correctly. "And even if she is, neither of us can stay mad at you for long, Raylan." That quieted Raylan until they could get him upstairs to the shower in the master bedroom. They left him there under the cold spray to sober up.

Tim looked at AUSA Crowder as the man dug a change of clothes out of the drawers in the guest room where Raylan's hat hung from a hook on the wall. "He has nightmares," Crowder said quietly. "About the courthouse, about those Dixie Mafia boys. About old things too sometimes, older than he cares to remember." Instead of saying 'he dreams about us dying', he carefully selected a plaid shirt to go with the clean, black henley stacked on top of a fresh pair of jeans. "Ava wants him to see someone, but the boy's a stubborn asshole. He drinks instead. Though I reckon you know a thing or two about that, Deputy Marshal."

"I might," Tim answered carefully. "I didn't realize all of you were so close. He never talks about growing up here."

"If you grew up like he did," Crowder murmured, gathering up the clothes. "Neither would you. Best get on downstairs if you want coffee."

Tim knew a dismissal when he heard one. He made his way back downstairs to the blue tiled kitchen were Rachel was sitting with a cup of coffee and a stack of pancakes covered in sliced bananas, walnuts, and some kind of brown, cinnamon syrup. She was obviously pleased, if subtle about it. Mrs. Crowder smiled at him from the stove. "Well, sit down, boy. Yours is almost ready."

Settling on the stool next to Rachel, Tim accepted a big, brown mug of coffee which Mrs. Crowder filled from a tin pot on the stove. "Milk or sugar?"

"No thanks, ma'am," Tim said, taking a sip. It was damn good coffee. She gave him a warm smile then put a plate identical to Rachel's in front of him. Taking the fork she handed him, Tim took a big bit of the pancakes, figuring he'd always eaten worse. "These are delicious, ma'am."

"Raylan's favorite," Mrs. Crowder said fondly. "Bananas foster pancakes. You two are lucky there's anything left."

Crowder's voice echoed down the stairwell, "She made a mess of them this morning." He came down the stairs and poured himself a cup of coffee as well. "I'm amazed we had enough left for the two of you." Seeing Rachel's inquiring glance, he nodded. "Raylan's getting dressed. He's mostly here now. Don't let him drive or shoot for the next few hours."

Mrs. Crowder rolled her eyes, gathering up plastic bottles of water and making toast to put in tuberware next to a container of aspirin. "Fool boy shouldn't even be going out there."

"It's his job, Ava," Crowder said gently, playing with her hair. "It's what he's good at." Mrs. Crowder tipped her head back against her husband's shoulder, settling her hands on the arm wrapped around her waist. They relaxed there together until Raylan's boots clomped down the stairs. With a fond smile for each other, they parted.

Crowder went to check on Raylan who looked more awake, but his eyes were still red. "Ava's packing you a bag. Have a cup of coffee 'fore you go. Let your partners finish breakfast. Where's your hat?"

"Shit," Raylan said succinctly, sitting down on the third stool and accepting a cup of coffee. He drained it still steaming and held it out for more. Mrs. Crowder ruffled his hair before refilling it.

Crowder disappeared upstairs and returned with Raylan's hat and badge. Raylan had remembered his gun himself. The hat went to Mrs. Crowder, who finger combed Raylan's hair into its usual style before pushing the hat down over it. Crowder slipped the badge into Raylan's back pocket. "Now you look like a lawman," Mrs. Crowder said, "'stead of a drunk."

Rachel reluctantly sopped up the last of the syrup with the square of pancake on her fork. "Tim?" she asked, making sure she wasn't pulling her fellow marshal from his food. Tim stuffed the last of his pancake in his mouth with a scoop of syrup covered banana, nodding at her. "Thank you for the hospitality, Mrs. Crowder. We need to be on the road now."

"Of course," Mrs. Crowder said. "Thank you for letting us get him tidied up." Everyone ignored Raylan's protest he could take care of his own damn self. "Good luck."

Tim nodded, "Ma'am, Mr. Crowder." He took Raylan's arm as Rachel accepted the lunchbag from Mrs. Crowder. "Thank you for everything."

The Crowders responded with niceties in return and escorted them back to the SUV. Before Tim could shove Raylan in the backseat, Mrs. Crowder kissed the cowboy marshal's cheek. "Come home," she ordered.

"Yes, ma'am," Raylan replied, shaking off Tim. "I surely will. Boyd?" Crowder reached out and grasped Raylan's hand firmly. They looked at each other for a moment. Then Raylan climbed into the SUV. "What the hell are we waiting for Rachel?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the story I tried to write. Where Boyd and Raylan team up to take down Bo Crowder legally. Mostly because Boyd Crowder would be a damn good lawyer.


	4. Into the Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The coal gets into your blood after awhile. It isn't always a bad thing.

"Goddammit," Kalstein muttered looking at the pile of roof fall on the floor of the mine. "Tell me no one was around when this happened, Boyd."

Boyd grimaced at his engineer. "RJ's in the hospital. Luckily, wasn't a head wound."

"Fuck," Kalstein hissed viciously. "You call MSHA?" Boyd nodded. "Shit. Thanks. This is just what we need. With our historical track record, they're gonna kick up a shitfit." She rubbed her hand across her face leaving smears of black dust on her cheeks above her respirator. The new dust suppression system was very effective at keeping the gritty, black killer out of the air, but in the older parts of the mine didn't see enough equipment to require it. The workings weren't active. So there wasn't too much concern. However, Kalstein insisted on taking precautions. "Okay, take pictures. I’m going to call those morons who sold us these fucking useless roof bolts and Jimmy. Keep the boys out of here. In fact, let's throw up barrier tape everywhere we've used the five-footers for bolting. That'll leave us with…"

"Two active headings," Boyd supplied. "We can make today's quota with that. Won't have any for the stockpile though."

Kalstein shrugged, "I'll take it. Go ahead and maintenance the third continuous miner if its not going to be doing anything. If anyone gives you shit about the stockpile, send'em my way. I'm feeling the need to start biting off heads."

Boyd smirked. "When do you not enjoy tormenting people, Kal." She laughed at him, waving him off and trudging back towards the mine shaft.

Ashleigh Kalstein had been one of the first changes Natural Energy had made to the Last Chance Mine when they'd purchased it after Southern Minerals had gone bankrupt. At the time, no one had known quite what to make of woman miner let alone a woman mining engineer. But this wasn't her first rodeo, Boyd found out later, saving coal projects stuck in the 19th century when their bad practices caught up with them. She'd put in the dust suppression system, brought in three continuous miners to replace the explosives, and hired on Boyd as her technician. She'd also gotten three MSHA inspectors fired for corruption and taking bribes to keep the Last Chance open despite massive violations of safety regulations.

Now, the Last Chance had a roof control plan, appropriate ventilation, and gas monitoring. Kalstein was the only engineer on staff and was constantly swamped. Boyd had originally been brought on-board for his understanding of the old workings. He'd been a little too clever in front of Kalstein, and she'd dragged him kicking and screaming into being her technical staff. He had a desk next to hers at the mine office, AutoCAD on his computer, and responsibilities. He was the senior engineering services technician.

"Boyd," his radio crackled, "Kalstein just came through fuming like an old diesel. There's some federal up at the office. Let one of the boys take care of the photos. She needs you topside." Callum, their youngest foreman, sounded distracted.

"Roger that, Callum. I'll tag out up top," Boyd sighed, holding down the transmit button on the radio. "Go ahead and have him put up safety tape everywhere we used those new bolts first." He packed up the free standing lights and digital camera he and Kalstein had hauled down, putting it in a pile and flagging it with reflective tape. He'd let whoever the foreman would send handle getting it back topside.

The bad news was he could hear Kalstein shouting from the mancage as it stopped at the top of the shaft. All Boyd could do was pray that the federal wasn't from MSHA. He pulled down his respirator, letting it hang from his neck as he tagged out and jogged towards the gravel parking lot in front of the mine office. Kalstein hadn't ever hauled off and hit someone, but there was a first time for everything. She took injuries to her boys personally. If the federal had implied her carelessness, instead of bad roof bolts, had gotten RJ hurt, she just might loose it.

Kalstein had pushed her safety glasses up her face and propped her hard hat on her hip with the head lamp still attached. PPE wasn't required in the parking lot, and she obviously wanted to look the asshole, who was wearing a white cowboy hat, in the eye. He loomed far enough above her the brim of the hard hat would have gotten in the way.

"Our background checks are /thorough/," Kalstein insisted angrily. "I would hardly hire a felon to maintain a single million dollar piece of equipment, let alone to help me run an entire fucking mine. What you're spreading is nothing less than goddamn slander, you tin starred Neanderthal."

Boyd barely managed to suppress a smile. On a roll, Kalstein had a mouth that would make a soldier blush and a preacher cry. "Kalstein?" he said blandly. "Callum said you wanted me."

"Damn straight," Kalstein snapped, turning towards him. "This moron is accusing you of being involved in your father's problems, and he interrupted the fucking shift to do it. Those shitheads are less than an hour out. They stopped at Roy's brother's gas station not ten minutes ago."

"I have the boys throwing up the tape now. You need to go get the paperwork," Boyd said urgently. "I'll handle this, Kal."

Kalstein threw up her hands, cursing a blue streak and she sprinted for the office. Boyd turned to the federal. "Raylan Givens, I never thought I'd see you again."

Raylan raised an eyebrow. "Boyd. Excitable isn't she?"

"There was a rock-fall in one of the old workings. Broke the arm of a boy down there checkin' the new roof support. MSHA's comin' up to take look. You'd get a little het up too," Boyd drawled out. "Come on in. We got coffee in the break room." He led the way to the supply closest with a sink and coffee pot tucked in the corner. It was good coffee at least. Kalstein and Boyd were the only ones that used it. So they could afford to be picky.  
The boys' had one in the hoist house and another in the breakroom underground.

Raylan accepted the mug with Natural Energy's logo on it with a polite nod. "Didn't think you'd still be here," he said, vaguely indicating the mine.

Boyd smiled. "Engineer Kalstein came lookin' for me. She was hirin' back on old hands to train the new blood. Turns out I got a feel for those rocks. I do a lot of geotech these days. Some blastin' on the side with a friend of hers who's a contractor for construction and quarries. That sort of thing. Good money all around."

"Better than what your daddy's makin'?" Raylan inquired innocently.

"That's not very polite," Boyd pointed out. "What I make is clean money now, Raylan. Mining's changed. Kalstein is down there everyday with us. We got good masks for the boys and water sprayers on the equipment to keep the dust down. Hell, I helped edit the last roof control plan we submitted to MSHA. Kalstein's sending me up to UK for some classes on geotechnical engineering on the company's dime. I got a good thing goin' here Raylan. I wouldn't do nothin' to fuck it up."

Sipping his coffee, Raylan considered Boyd silently for a long time. "I believe you," he finally decided. "God help me, but you always loved this shit."

Boyd nodded. "Yeah, Raylan, I do." He drained his cup of coffee. "Now, why don't you skedaddle before the inspector shows up, and we can talk over drinks at Johnny's tonight. I'll bring Kal, you bring that pretty thing decoratin' your arm." He nodded to the young, black woman who'd been speaking to Marlene the secretary. She'd probably snuck in while Raylan and Kalstein were arguing. "And we can talk about the old days."

The woman looked incredulous, but Raylan flashed a grin at her. "I'll be there. Rachel?"

"If nothing else," she said evenly, "it'll be interesting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PPE is personal protection equipment. In this case, respirators, safety glasses, and hard hats.
> 
> MSHA is the Mine Safety and Health Administration (pronounced Em-Shaw). Basically, OSHA for mining but with teeth.
> 
> Kalstein's thanks is sincere. An injury requiring hospitalization is an MSHA-reportable incident. She would want it reported. Especially with Boyd and his silver tongue doing the hard work.
> 
> UK does have mining engineering program.
> 
> I'm constantly frustrated with how the mining industry is presented in Justified. It's like they can't decide whether its the early 1900s or the 1990s. MSHA is never mentioned, despite the fact even when Raylan and Boyd were nineteen they would have been a presence in the mine. Whether or not they were corrupt is another question. The hard sell from season 2 is slightly more realistic. Slightly.


	5. Red Dirt Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These two girls aren't going to die here. Not when they have so much to live for.

Mags Bennett was not a stupid woman. She was appropriately wary of the two she-wolves in her parlor. Dickie wisely hid outside. Since the Givens girl never forgave him for the night he tried to force himself on her. Mags was fine with that as well.

Bodie Crowder wasn't beautiful. She was pretty in an usual sort of way with big, green eyes and a wild smile, slender in the way her mama had been. Raylan Givens, Bodie's shadow since Frances' death, was broader with more bust and hair which tended gold in the summer. Raylan was the one who did the hitting when Bodie needed hitting done. The bigger girl already had scars on her knuckles from settling business disagreements for her friend.

"Apple pie?" Mags asked, carrying in the jar and three glasses.

"Yes, please, ma'am," Bodie drawled out with a sweet smile. Raylan nodded as well, her face impassive beneath the Number 3 cap she'd started wearing after last Christmas. Bodie was wearing a washed-out green dress with patterns sewn in matching thread over heavy shitkicker boots. She'd dressed up for the meeting obviously. Raylan hadn't bothered. The grey streaks on her white t-shirt and torn jeans suggested she'd been fixing Bodie's truck again.

Mags poured all three of them a glass. Bodie let her sit. However, Raylan took a small sip, rolling it around in her mouth. Then she set the glass to the side and took the same size sip of Bodie's. No one could accuse Harlan County's princesses of being stupid. The liquid Raylan consumed wouldn't be enough to make her anything more than sick if it was spiked. There was also no doubt that if Raylan started feeling ill, she'd gun down Mags with the pretty, little Sig Sauer Bo Crowder had given her before sicking back up the bad 'shine.

"We have business proposition for you," Bodie said without the toothy smile wavering. She kept one eye on Raylan. Mags began to suspect Bodie had something hidden in her boot as well. "We wish to sell our half of the business our fathers' bequeathed to us upon our majority to you."

It was not what Mags was expecting. She nearly choked on her mouthful of 'shine. Coughing to clear her throat, she said, "That is a bold offer, girl. And dangerous. If you're daddy heard…"

"Our daddies are exactly why we are making this offer, ma'am," Bodie said sharply. "We're leaving, Mags. We need money. Enough to get us a long way from here." Her expression didn't waver, but Mags remembered when she and Raylan used to sneak around their daddys' backs for just a few words. They were running scared.

Mags put her glass down. "What happened, girls? And don't you lie to me now." She looked at them both sternly.

Bodie sucked at her cheek. "Raylan," she finally decided. "Show her." Raylan stood up. She took off her hat and carefully handed it to Bodie. Then she turned and pulled up her t-shirt revealing the back of her sports bra and red stripes of bruises and lacerations underneath. "Arlo caught us," Bodie said evenly. "Not enough to prove anything, but enough to do that. We don't have a choice. Either we leave, or I will put Arlo Givens in the ground for hurting my Raylan." Raylan looked at Bodie sharply but didn't speak.

"Christ almighty," Mags breathed. "Get that shirt off, sweetheart. I got some salve for that." She stood up and hurried to the bathroom for peroxide, towels, and salve. "There's nothin' in those glasses, girls. Raylan, drink up." She came back with an armful of supplies to the sight of Raylan laying on her stomach on the couch. Bodie had propped her up with pillows so Raylan could sip her apple pie prone.

Mags spread out her supplies on a towel on the floor. "These don't look like a belt," she said analytically. Bodie draped herself across the top of the couch to stroke Raylan's hair as Mags worked. "What did he lay into you with, honey?"

Raylan shifted as the peroxide foamed over her skin. "Steel dog cable," she said quietly. "With the hook still on it."

No wonder Bodie was murderous. Raylan would have been distracting her daddy so Bodie could run. Arlo was probably stupid drunk enough Bo had yet to figure out what had happened. That's why they had to clear town. Mags carefully wiped away the peroxide and lifted the band of Raylan's jeans and panties. The marks were just bruises beneath the denim. The heavier material had protected Raylan. "Well, I'll give you a couple of jars of salve for your bottom half," Mags said clinically as she smeared the goo across the open cuts on Raylan's shoulder. "And some more of this for the cuts. Ten each for the business. I'll want all the locations, names, and relevant facts in writing if you please."

"Ten each is cheap," Bodie pointed out, eyes narrowed.

"I'm gonna have to fight Arlo and Bo to honor your agreement," Mags retorted, looking up at Bodie. "I'm takin' the risk. I'll set the price, Bodie Crowder."

Raylan hissed. "Take it, darlin'. We can't stay here." She looked up at Bodie, dark eyes sad. "I won't loose you."

"Indeed you won't," Bodie said fiercely. "Fine. Thank you, Mags. For cleaning up Raylan."

Mags sat back to examine her work. Each cut was slick and shiny with salve. The worst ones had gauze tapped over them. "I am sorry your daddy is such a bastard, Raylan. But we ain't done, Bodie. I want your truck." The two girls glanced at each other. "I'll give you Dickie's for it," Mags finished. "It'll get you outta Kentucky."

"Done," Bodie said easily. "If you got the money, we'll take it, Mags. We packed and said good-bye to Helen and Johnny already." She pulled out a black moleskin. "The business details are here."

They were organized. Mags would give them that. "I'll get the cash. You get your truck's paperwork now, Bodie. Dickie's is in the kitchen drawer. We'll get it signed and legal. Then you two will be on your way." She helped Raylan back into the t-shirt. "Good girl." Mags took a moment to smooth Raylan's shorn hair out of her face. "I'm sorry to see the two of you go. You're clever girls." Raylan leaned in. Mags hugged her gently, rocking her a little.

Bodie left them to it to get the paperwork from her truck. Mags settled Raylan on the couch with another ruffle of the hair. From the kitchen she got Dickie's paperwork. Then she reached behind the radiator for the cash she kept there. As the girls watched, she counted out twenty thousand dollars. Bodie took the money, handed over the book, and signed the papers on both the trucks. Raylan was handed the money which she folded into discrete roles and deposited in her boots, bra, and other hidden pockets. As she hid the money, she revealed the gun and a skinning knife in the top of her boot.

Mags helped them move their bags, the two shotguns, a vermin rifle, and Raylan's hunting rifle into Dickie's truck. They had Raylan's toolbox as well, a cooler of food, and a small case of 'shine. It wasn't much to show for a life in Harlan. At least they wouldn't go hungry. Raylan was a good shot with both pistol and rifle. They could always shoot rabbits and squirrels to fill their bellies.

Raylan climbed into the driver's seat, pulling her hat low over her eyes. The engine started much smoother than the one in Bodie's truck. Bodie climbed up into the passenger's seat, her long dark hair starting to fall out of it's bun and curl around her face in the heat. They cut a fine figure in the shadowy, Kentucky light. Mags patted the truck's door. "Good luck, girls," she said. "Don't you come back."

"Yes, ma'am," they chorused like they were young and wide-eyed again. A low cloud of dust rose around the tires as Raylan pulled down the drive towards the holler road which would take them to the interstate. Mags raised a hand to shade her eyes as she watched them go. She stood there on the porch until the dust had settled and Bodie Crowder and Raylan Givens were long gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The number three hat Raylan is wearing is of course a Dale Earnhardt hat.
> 
> Yes, they have a ridiculous number of guns. They're from Kentucky.
> 
> I love Mags Bennett. She is fascinating, frightening, and above all else a Southern woman. I've always wanted to do a story from her POV.


	6. Outtakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stories that I didn't write enough of/felt weren't coherent enough to make official chapters.

Snippet #1 Known Affectionately as Mirror!Verse (In which Raylan Givens is King of Harlan, Ava's his Queen, and Rachel and Tim are his trusted footsoldiers.)

Boyd dreams of the collapse a lot. Mostly of the wet crack followed by inhuman squeal as a piece of debris fell and broke Raylan's arm. He kept the last twenty dollars Raylan had given him. It was Helen's money, but not enough for Raylan to risk leaving the mine and loosing what little medical coverage they gave. She'd given it to Raylan, trying to give him a way out. With his arm so busted up, it just was possible. So Raylan had told Boyd to leave. "One of us has to live, Boyd," he'd said. "And it ain't gonna be me. Not anymore." There had been a fight. Raylan had won. Boyd took the money, and Raylan's pick-up and left town the next morning.

Now he was knocking on the door of a house in Harlan with Givens on the mailbox. A black woman answered the door. Boyd recognized Raylan Givens suspected second in command, Rachel Brooks. She'd been a US marshal before a racist, sexist, well-connected partner had run her out of the service. Her husband had left her and her daughter soon after. Raylan Givens had offered her a job, and she did it well by all accounts. "Can I help you?" she asked evenly. Her eyes flicked over Boyd's shoulder.

Boyd suspected Timothy Gutterson, the Givens pet sniper and enforcer was behind him. Ava Givens had picked him up out of the wreckage of Johnny Crowder's bar. The ex-soldier had poorly managed PTSD. He was suspected in the murder of two meth cookers and the disappearance of Derek "Devil" Lennox after he threatened Ava. Rumor had it he and Brooks were an item. "Hello, Ms. Brooks, I'm Agent Crowder with the DEA. Is Raylan Givens home?"

"Raylan's not off shift yet," Brooks said flatly, leaning against the door to block Boyd's view. "Can I help you?"

"Considering how successful a business man he is, I am startled to hear Raylan holds a real job," Crowder drawled out, watching Brooks carefully.

She shrugged. "He works part time at the mine. The shift ends at six. You're welcome to stop by for dinner at seven. There's always room for an old friend of Raylan's."

Startled, Boyd let slip, "You know then?"

"Boyd Crowder. Raylan still talks about you," Brooks said calmly. "Got a girl named after you. Bodie just started at UK this year."

From behind Brooks, a voice from the past called, "Who is Rachel?"

"Boyd Crowder," Brooks called back to Ava Givens.

"Let'm in," Ava ordered.

Brooks stepped to the side, gesturing for Boyd to step in. The front hall was filled with wooden furniture years out of fashion covered in shiny picture frames. Sitting prominently at the center of the school functions and Christmas photos was a picture of Raylan Givens with two of his daughters on his lap and the eldest at his shoulder. Raylan wore a trucker's cap and a clean pair of dark jeans with his collared shirt. The girls all wore dresses and had their faces and hair done up. Raylan looked the kind of proud a man couldn't help but being when he loved his children. Next to it was a picture of Brooks holding her own little girl with Gutterson's arm around her waist. Gutterson was also proud. It was there in the way he held himself turned into Brooks and the girl, but he wasn't settled like Raylan. He was still as possessive as proud.

Ava was in the kitchen stirring something in the crockpot. The room was humid and smelled pleasantly of roasting meat and garlic. She put the lid on the pot before turning towards them. "Boyd, its been a long time. Raylan's goin' to be so pleased to see you. Are you stayin' for dinner?"

Snippet #2 Known not-so-Affectionately as Too Many Damn Flashbacks (In Which Raylan and Boyd are Army Rangers, and Raylan is Incongruously a Medic)

Raylan didn't like Iraq. He didn't hate it more than the mines, but it wasn't his favorite place in the world. That was Ava's little house up in the Smokeys in Tennessee. He and Boyd had finished the new porch before they left on deployment. Christian and Ronnie would be running up the steps home from school right now.

He looked down to check his patient wasn't bleeding out quite as several as before he'd applied pressure. It was a kid, not part of the unit. Some green boy from Florida who'd been hit by sharpnel. Raylan hated sharpnel wounds. They bled like a bitch and were near impossible to close cleanly. A distinctly Kentucky yell of, "Fire in the hole," made him smile a little. Boyd had found an RPG and was shooting back.

The kid was dead. He was still breathing, but the blood on the sand told its own story. Raylan stood up and ran to the next cry of, "Medic!"

"This is seriously all we have on them?" Art Mullen asked incredously.

"Everything unofficial," Rachel replied wearily. "Tim…"

Tim cleared his throat. "I called a friend. He confirmed that the Preacher and Cowboy in the article are in fact Boyd Crowder and Raylan Givens. If we're gonna know anything about their relationship to Bo Crowder, its going to be in there. They didn't talk about family to anyone I know. Anyone at all really. If we want more, we're going to have to go to the men themselves."

Art looked down at the expose. It was the usual fluff about an embedded reporter in Iraq. A contingent of Army Rangers had biovauced with his unit for the night, and he'd interviewed them under aliases. The article was fairly thorough, not as bad as some. Art skipped to section Rachel had highlighted.

_"...The two most engimatic members are Preacher and Cowboy the unit's explosives expert and medic respectively. Preacher earned his title by winning a bible quoting contest with an unpopular Army chaplain. I got to see the origin of Cowboy's nickname myself during a target shooting contest in which three men tried to quick-draw their handguns and fire at a target. Cowboy was by far the fastest and most accurate. He drew his pistol so fast no one actually saw it leave the holster._

_They are both originally from Kentucky. From some of the other men, I heard they have known each other since childhood. They speak with the same accent and have the intuitive sense of the other which only comes with time. When I did the interview, Preacher spoke for both of them. Apparently, Cowboy, much like his namesakes, doesn't have much to say to strangers. When I asked them about where they came from and how they met, Preacher told me they'd dug coal together as boys. A collapse at the mine scared them to the recruiting office. Cowboy met and married Preacher's cousin after their first deployment. They have pictures of her with the children she's fostering inside their helmets._

_According to their Captain, they are the most highly decorated men in the unit. I never would have guessed that from speaking to them. Preacher never spoke of any of their accomplishments, hobbies, or anything else personal. The entire time I met them, I heard Cowboy speak only once, to Preacher. There was radio playing fiddle music and he asked Preacher if he wanted to dance. Several of the men cheered when Preacher agreed. Preacher and Cowboy dancing were quite a sight. A piece of plywood was found for them to dance on, and they stomped their boots against it in time to the music on the radio. Preacher explained it's called clogging and is style common in rural Kentucky, where Preacher and Cowboy are from. Both of them are accomplished dancers, though Preacher is considered the best. A large audience gathered to watch them. There was groaning and calls for more when they stopped."_

"Which tells us percisely nothing," Art sighed. "At least we know we probably have the right boys. Since they're both from Kentucky."

"Ava Givens is a dead end as well," Rachel filled in. "We think she might be Ava Kelley from a rape case in Harlan County twenty-one years ago. Bowman Crowder and his 'gang' were the main suspects. Nothing ever came of it. Ava Kelley vanishes. Ava Crowder marries Raylan Givens in Tennessee. When we asked her about it over the phone, she re-directed us to her husband and Sergeant Boyd Crowder, who are deployed right now." She added a file to the stack on Art's desk. "There's also Winona Crowder. Her second husband was killed by the Dixie Mafia right after she divorced him. She also just narrowly avoided inheriting his significant debt."

"Could Crowder have anything to do with… Gary Hawkins death?" Art asked, rubbing his temples.

Tim spoke up, "According to the judge she used to work for, she's court reporter, she was pregnant when she left her husband. Her behavior got really erratic right before the divorce. He described her as 'frightened'. Then Sergeant Raylan Givens appears on the scene with his lovely wife. Winona is introduced to Boyd Crowder, and they're married within the week. Then Winona Crowder disappears into Tennessee with her new husband."

"WitSec?" Rachel threw out, "Kentucky style. Change her name, move her out of state, let her financials go cold for awhile?"

Art opened the folder to Givens' and Crowder's overview page. "Could be. Why though? There's no connection between any of the Givens-Crowder family and Winona Hawkins."

_Winona was sure she was a dead woman. Kevin had looked up those names for her, and they were no one good. Wynn Duffy had been in her house. Gary was lying at every turn, and she was pregnant. A deep whiff of the steam from her tea did nothing to ease the panic in her chest. She was a dead woman along with her baby. The tears came, but she blinked them back. They wouldn't do her any good._

_"Excuse me," a woman drawled softly. Winona looked up, expecting that she'd been mistaken for someone else. A pretty, blonde woman her own age smiled down at her. "Where is he?"_

_"Who?" Winona asked shakily._

_"The man who scared you, honey," the woman replied, eyes dark. "I know that look, intimately. Do you need help?" She said very carefully but full of understanding. Winona sniffed a little staring. The woman sat down across from her and said frankly, "My fiancee beat the shit out of me when he thought I might leave. Then he passed me around his boys like a party favor. I still married the bastard. Biggest mistake of my life. God knows how long I would have lasted if I didn't have the good sense to call my brother-in-law to come get me. Now, where's the man that scared you?"_

_Winona looked at the woman. For some reason she believed the unbowed pride in that pretty face. This woman had walked through hell and had no problem showing the world she was a survivor. "It's not /a/ man. Not my husband. He made some bad decesions with some very bad people."_

_"Police?" the woman asked gently, laying her hand over Winona's._

_"I'm pregnant," Winona said. "And I want to go, but I can't. They'll follow me to make Gary pay. They'll hurt my sister if I run to her place. My first husband was a marshal. He says that the local police might be in the pockets of these men."_

_The woman's face went hard. "It sounds like you need a white knight, honey." Winona choked out something like a laugh. "Luckily, I know a couple of 'em."_

_"Where's your first husband?" Winona blurted. "Just… How did you get away?"_

_A slow, wolfish smile curled across the woman's face. "Oh honey, my boys buried him deep in one of the hollers his daddy owned with a hole the size of my fist where his heart used to be?"_

Art grimaced. "Bo Crowder has been very interested in these two. I want to know if he's just missing his boy, of if we need to be interested in them. Both of you, take a road trip. Let's try taking to Missus Givens and Missus Crowder in person."

The Givens-Crowder house was a tidy split-level with two trailers, equally clean if worn, in the neat front yard. Yellow and white flowers lined both the house and trailers. A woman in a blue sundress with a blue kerchief over her hair was gardening, keeping one eye on the four children amusing a baby on the blanket in the shade. "Hello," Rachel called pleasantly. "We're looking for Winona Crowder and Ava Givens?"

"I'm Ava," the woman said, standing up and wiping a gloved hand across her sweating face leaving smears of dirt. "Can I help you?" She looked over at the children who ranged from the baby girl to a sixteen year old young woman. "Loretta, take the babies inside, girl." Loretta nodded gathering the two younger boys the other little girl and baby, casting a fearful glance at the marshals.

Tim shrank on himself to appear less intimidating. Rachel smiled carefully. "We're Deputy US Marshals, Mrs. Givens. I'm Rachel Brooks. We spoke on the phone."

Ava's didn't look reassured. "My husband and brother-in-law aren't back yet."

"That's fine," Rachel said quickly. "We were actually hoping to ask you and Mrs. Crowder some questions."

It didn't look like Ava was going to be agreeable. However, from the front porch, Winona called, "Let'em in Ava. They won't let us be if we don't let'em try." She frowned at the marshals. "Come on in. I made limeade You want to get cleaned up, Ava?"

Ava snorted. "I get prettied up for guests. Not nosey federals. I am, however, thirsty." She hitched up her sundress high enough Tim's eyes went a little wild at the tan skin of her thighs and shook out the dirt. Then she stepped gracefully onto the porch. Winona smiled warmly at her as she passed. They moved together with the certain grace of the mistresses of their household. Tim couldn't help but imagining them as some kind of hillbilly queens ruling their little patch together with steely eyes.

The children were no where to be seen on the way to the kitchen. Winona settled at the table as Ava poured four, tall glasses of limeade. She sat next to the other woman of the house leaving the marshals to sit across from them, making the division between the four of them clear.

"We have some questions about your husbands," Rachel started. Tim looked uncomfortable under the piercingly direct glares of the two women. "Staff Sergeant Raylan Givens and Staff Sergeant Boyd Crowder. I understand Sergeant Givens is a medic?"

"Yes," Ava said sharply. "And Boyd blows things up. They're in the Rangers. It's in your files I'm sure. Could we move on to what you're really here about."

Rachel nodded, pulling a picture out and sliding it across the table. "Do you know this man?"

Ava and Winona glanced at the picture of Bo Crowder. Ava's expression didn't change, but Winona shot a questioning look at her. "No," Ava said.

"Never seen him in my life," Winona added honestly.

"This is Bo Crowder, Sergeant Crowder's father," Rachel explained. "He's currently in jail on minor gun charges. We also suspect him of drug trafficking in Harlan County, Kentucky. His partner is this man." She put a picture of Arlo Givens down. "This is Sergeant Givens father, Arlo. He is the primary enforcer for Bo. You've never met either one of them?"

Ava glanced at Winona, but the expression was too fast for Rachel to catch. "Raylan's daddy beat him and his mama," Ava said flatly. "Boyd doesn't talk about his. I'm a Crowder, but we're a big clan. I never met Bo. He and my mama didn't get along. The boys left Kentucky when they were nineteen, twenty. Never went back."

Rachel pushed a little. "Do they ever talk about their fathers? Or mentioned anything about the kind of businness they're families do?" Ava's lips curled in fury.

"No," Winona said coldly, shutting Rachel down. "They don't. Look, we don't know anything. If you want to ask the boys, you'll have to wait until they're home. Now, you've upset my sister-in-law, accusing our husbands like that. I want you to leave." Her tone was the icy politness of a true Southern belle. Rachel and Tim left before she could get any angrier.

The sons were dead end. Bo Crowder got out. The oxy, guns, and other shit kept flowing into and out of Harlan. No one seemed able to stem it.

Then Art Mullen walked into the office one day and found two men in BDUs lounging on the visitor's seats with military duffels at their feet. The BDUs were clean, but they still had dirt in the creases of their eyes. "Chief Deputy Mullen?" the dark haired man asked. Art nodded, wishing desperately for coffee. The man gave Art a toothy smile. "I'm Staff Sergeant Boyd Crowder. This is my partner, Staff Sergeant Raylan Givens. Our wives said you wanted to talk."

It didn't take long to establish that Givens wasn't a talker. He sat back in his chair in the conference room with crossed arms watching Crowder. He looked at everyone else clinically. Like they suddenly might start puking or gushing blood, and he needed to be ready. Crowder was a little on the wild side, accenting his words with sharp flicks of his hand. "We joined the army to get away from our daddy's life choices," Crowder explained.

What the marshal's didn't know couldn't hurt them. Raylan put Bowmen six feet under with a smile for what he did to Ava, who was the closest thing they had to a sister. Boyd helped him dig the hole. The taste of grave dirt on Raylan's lips always lingered in his memory. Ava had held it together at Helen's long enough for them to get into the Rangers before they bought her a house in Tennesse far away from Harlan. She married Raylan, because the state preferred married couples for fostering. She was content with the children her house and the trailers Raylan and Boyd kept for themselves. They'd buried two Dixie Mafia enforcers next to Bowmen, and Boyd had incinerated one more before they understood Winona was no longer fair game. Boyd was estatic over the prospect of a daughter, threatening to name her after Raylan.

The best part of their little family was how few questions were asked. Boyd and Raylan had worked hard to build their castle. Ava and Winona were both proud women. Proud enough to hold no shame over their choices. They protected their husbands and children fiercely. So no one thought to question how close the two men were. These marshals had nothing on the social services or nosy co-workers who'd come sniffing around before. So Boyd talked and Raylan watched, confident they'd walk out of here for a Greyhound bus bound home.

**Author's Note:**

> I have discovered I am incapable of writing a coherent, plotty storyline for Justified. I can outline. I can write snippets, but none of the characters stick around long enough for a real story. These are up for grabs if you want them.


End file.
